*I came up with this poem while knitting on a shawl on a rainy day listening to Moon by George Winston-the name of the colors of the yarn I am using are in the poem: Forest, Nocturne, Deep Waters, Vineyard, Basalt, Oregon Coast, and Pearlescent. Everything-yarn, words, music-joined together in one peaceful, harmonic moment. Proof that inspiration can come from anything.

Drops still soak my shirt, but now they’re warm
I’m safe behind the wheel and looking on
As rolling gentle farmland flanks my way
Soft cloud-lit hills ere misting into grey
The air is warm and laced with summer rain
And thunder rumbles overhead again

The fields are patchworked; crop with fallow earth
In some, abundance, there, in others, dearth
Yet e’en amidst the long beheaded stalks
And stems, the crows and pigeons take their walks
To peck and fill each hungry feathered beak;
To worms and bugs a fast-pecked death they wreak

Ahead the tarmac greys and folds and dips
All runnel-pooled, fresh-washed and water slicked
Above, the boughs of trees reach out – hold hands
Unload sparkling fat drops across the land
And wreathing through the air across the fields
The forerunning scent of autumn woodsmoke yields

Hedgerows green yet now bedecked with brown
Where summer flowers have faded, seeds have grown
And wait their turn for scattering autumn breeze
To shake them free and grant new life’s release
For now, tangled, content amongst the briars
Where dark-juice berries draw hungry mouthed admirers

Here and there the fields of fattened summer grain
Hang soaking heads, with hopes to rise again
And ripen off in searing perfect sun
Complete in harvest-time, the season done
I hope for them blue skies will return soon
And for myself; not ready to face the gloom

Further on, a festival is in process
Great stage, watch-towers; a mark of human progress
To pitch in fields and celebrate the arts
Embrace life, and music, welcoming the parts
Acknowledging, rain-washed, their beauteous goals
To touch us deep in our aesthetic souls

Yet canvas-pods and crowds cannot compare
To simple beauty – forests; birdsong; there
Is everything an aesthete e’er could need
And in those vistas I could only heed
The landscape, silent, drenched in August glory
Yet mere footnotes in nature’s season-story